


In Your Sleep

by Larsini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baker Street Softies, Did I mention that it's fluffy, Drunk John, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, No Plot/Plotless, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8103877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larsini/pseuds/Larsini
Summary: Just a tiny little fic about John indulging in a nightly drink and Sherlock being adorably strokable. Might be continued, but for now it's self-sufficient.





	

 Sherlock had the most wonderful hair. It was soft and smooth, dark and silky, tangled and so thick that John wished he could just bury his fingers in it and see them disappear in the gleaming ebony locks. He didn't, though. It might have woken the man, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Instead he kept on stroking, slowly and gently and with enough care to not disturb his sleep. He knew it was foolish, ridiculous really, and he didn't even know why he was doing it. The alcohol, most likely. He was drunk, warm and comfortable and sleepy, and at some point his fingertips had just found their way to the dark, enticing tangle of locks. He had always wanted to touch Sherlock's hair, had always wondered what it felt like, and now that he had an answer to that question he just couldn't stop.

Slowly. Carefully. Gently. He moved his fingers without haste, without pressure, let the dark strands glide over his skin and watched how they reflected the dim light of the street lanterns streaming in through the window. Now and then sipped his whiskey, strangely content with the world.

He never drank whiskey, not really, but a few months ago Greg had gifted him a bottle for his birthday, and tonight it had seemed to call for him. There was nothing else to do, the blog was up to date, the flat in a state of relative order, no appointments, no cases, no obligations, and so he had settled down on the couch and decided to have a drink. To his surprise Sherlock had joined him, muttering something about how the scent of whiskey served to inspire him, but rejected his offer to have some as well. And then he had fallen asleep next to John, curled up into a ball, legs close to his chest, face hidden underneath his arm, radiating a peaceful kind of serenity he never possessed while awake.

That had been an hour ago, and John was still sitting in the dark, slowly sipping his drink, watching his best friend sleep. At some point he had given in to his curiosity and touched the man's hair. And now, dizzy and sleepy and smiling, he wondered why he had never done it before. It felt far too good to stop any time soon.

Then, after an eternity of stillness, Sherlock shifted in his sleep, and John felt his heart skip a beat. With bated breath, not daring to move, he watched how the detective turned on his back, how he stretched his legs and lowered his arm and tilted his head, and John winced when the movement had Sherlock's scalp push against his fingertips. He didn't dare to move them, and after a moment of hesitation, as if the sensation had gotten to him even in his slumber, the detective relaxed. John exhaled, as silently as he could, and carefully pulled his hand away.

Sherlock hummed, and it sounded disgruntled. John blinked, momentarily confused. He hadn't made sounds before. While John wondered whether Sherlock was having some kind of dream, a nightmare maybe, he felt his fingers brush against the man's head again, too distracted to pull away in time when Sherlock shifted once more. It nearly felt as if he was leaning into the touch... but he'd never do that. Not even unconsciously.

Sherlock hated being touched.

John stared at him, unsure what to do. If he woke him now... he'd never hear the end of it. Once again the pressure against his fingers grew, and a fine crease appeared between the sleeping man's brows. The doctor swallowed, and as gently as he could he lowered his fingers again, hoping for the best. Sherlock emitted a faint sound, the tiniest noise of contentment, as if that was what he had been waiting for. John slowly raised his glass to his lips, his throat paper-dry, then cautiously let his fingertips graze the man's scalp, praying to every God that would listen that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

It was hard to see in the dim light, but Sherlock seemed to be smiling in his sleep.

 _Madness_ , John thought, caught somewhere between curiosity, amazement and panic. It wasn't as if he was doing any harm, he was hardly touching the man, but still... he felt like a thief, stealing away the precious feeling of Sherlock's silky curls against his fingertips, taking something that wasn't his to have. Sherlock hated being touched. Sherlock snarled at everyone who got too close, like a dog expecting to be kicked, and on the rare occasions that someone had been oblivious and ignorant enough to forego the warning signs, had forced themselves on the detective and touched him without permission, John had seen genuine hatred flicker through his glass shard eyes.

He never wanted to see that look aimed at him. He knew he wouldn't be able to stomach that.

But he couldn't pull away either, not with a sleeping Sherlock pushing against his fingers like a cat yearning to be stroked, and so he sat in the dark, eyes fixed on the movement of his hand in the sea of ebony curls, and patted the man's head as gently as he could.

Sherlock hummed again, but it sounded different now. Relaxed. Content. Could it be? That he was enjoying it? John wouldn't know. They lived together, they worked together, they risked their lives for each other, but he had no idea what Sherlock liked. Whether he would find the stroking relaxing or distracting, calming or frustrating. Enjoyable or unpleasant.

It had never mattered until now, and while he contemplated the question John let another sip of whiskey trickle down his throat, closed his eyes at the distinct, sharp bite on his tongue and the rich aroma numbing his senses. His head felt so heavy. Empty, but in a good way. He was calm. He was sleepy. He was warm.

He was stroking Sherlock, caressing his hair and playing with his curls, and it was oddly satisfying. He smiled to himself, allowing himself to indulge in the feeling, the strange, secretive pleasure of this stolen little moment. Seconds brushed past and turned into minutes, and still Sherlock was asleep, smiling under his touch, lost in his dreams while John stroked his hair and watched him. His eyes trailed over the soft curve of angelic lips, the shady frame of magnificent cheekbones, the pale, sharp jaw line contrasting with the darkness. A porcelain mask in the nightly twilight. Peaceful. Relaxed. Beautiful.

John sighed. He had never been able to ignore Sherlock's beauty, and even now, when he couldn't see the brilliant gleam in his crystal eyes, couldn't hear the dark ripple of his silky voice, he still couldn't escape its mesmerizing effect. It was hopeless and childish and bittersweet, pining over the man like that, always watching, waiting, hoping. He knew it was in vain. Even if Sherlock hadn't been the way he was – so high above humanity and its emotional turmoils that he sometimes seemed to forget they even existed – it wouldn't have changed a damn thing.

Sherlock wasn't his to have, and so he took another sip, tried to let the sharp burn wash his indulgence away and forced himself to avert his eyes. His fingers stilled, came to rest in the dark tangle of locks, and he couldn't bring himself to continue. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe he had been quiet for too long and allowed melancholy pull him into its embrace, or maybe he was just tired... either way, he couldn't go on. It would be best to go to bed, to leave Sherlock to his dreams in darkness and never, ever mention this secret moment of stolen indulgence.

John swallowed and slowly pulled his hand away, careful not to catch his fingers in the ruffled curls, and blinked to shoo the tiredness away. It wouldn't do to get up, succumb to dizziness and have Sherlock start from his sleep only because he had fallen over the coffee table.

He had barely finished that thought when something had him freeze. He slowly turned his head. Stared at the slender, pale fingers tightly wrapped around his wrist, keeping his hand from pulling away. His eyes fell on Sherlock.

And Sherlock looked back.

Seconds passed, sneaked by unnoticed while the two men stared at each other, and finally John realized he had been holding his breath and inhaled, slowly and somewhat unsteadily. Watched how Sherlock led his hand back to his head, guided it to the spot where it had been before. Felt the soft curls against his fingertips when the man leaned into the touch. John stared at him, not sure this was really happening.

Sherlock was awake. Wide awake, by the look of it. Not a hitch in his breath, no trace of daze in his eyes. Slow, deliberate movements. He pressed his head into John's palm and only then let go of his wrist, still giving him that upside down stare, even harder to read than usual.

John swallowed.

''I... I didn't mean to-''

''Don't.'' The detective's voice was hardly more than a faint whisper, toneless and bare of emotion. Of reproach or anger. John blinked. What was he supposed do now? What... what _could_ he do? It was not like he could just go back to... petting the man, to ruffling his hair and playing with his curls, to watching him in his sleep and wondering what he might be dreaming of. _Sleep_... as if. He had been awake all along, and the realization sent a red hot jolt through John's nerves. He could feel a blush creep on his cheeks.

What a fool he was.

''John.'' That silky voice. He exhaled, feeling helpless.

''Sherlock.'' It came out shaky, but it was impossible to hear, spoken to silently. Even with the detective's face upside down John could watch a small frown furrow his brows. He was waiting.

It wasn't as if he could do any harm. It wasn't as if the worst thing hadn't already happened... Sherlock waking up. No, not waking up... _noticing_. John wondered how long he had been awake, had let himself be stroked and surrendered to the touch. He hadn't interrupted him. He hadn't turned away. He had leaned in for more.

He had enjoyed it, and he wanted John to continue... recapturing his hand had said as much. He wanted it. John licked his lips. It was too late to start pretending anyway. Sherlock knew. Sherlock _always_ knew, and apparently he didn't mind.

After what had felt like an eternity, crammed into the blink of an eye, John finally yielded to that steely stare and shifted back into place. Captured a restive curl between his fingertips, weaved his fingers into the silky locks and watched dark strands of hair glide over his skin.

Sherlock hummed appreciatively, relaxing under his touch, but he didn't close his eyes again. He kept on staring, watching, studying. John felt his cheeks burn and decided it didn't matter now. With a faint huff he raised his glass and drowned his embarrassment in a hearty swig, secretly pleased.

He would never again be able to meet his best friend's eyes, not once this night was over, but right now that was alright. Right now he was allowed to touch him, to play with his hair and enjoy the soft tickling against his fingertips, was allowed to indulge in the moment under Sherlock's watchful guard. Was allowed to smile at the silent approval radiating off the man. For the worst thing that could have happened this had turned out rather well.

Sherlock sighed and tensed, momentarily lost in a motionless stretch, then blinked and broke into a tiny yawn. John couldn't help but watch, utterly amazed. He had never seen Sherlock yawn before, and it was... adorable. The way his lips shivered, the soft gasp escaping his throat, the pleased shudder running through his body when it died down and left him sleepy and content... _adorable_. The last word he would have thought of to describe the man, but there it was. Adorable, sleepy, don't-you-dare-stop-petting-me Sherlock, looking up at him and smiling somewhat sheepishly when he noticed John's fascination.

Maybe he should drink whiskey more often. It had the strangest things happen to him, and he never ever wanted it to stop.

Sherlock hummed and blinked, still indulging in the soft touch against his hair.

''More,'' he murmured silently, apparently following the same mental trail that John had wandered before. _Now the secret is out... might as well make the best of it_. John smirked and adjusted his seat, shifted a little deeper into the cushions and relaxed. Put a little more pressure behind the strokes, now and then playfully tucking on a curl, running his fingers through the silky dark sea of locks, the way he had wanted to do all along. Another hum, a content fluttering of lashes, a silent sigh. Apparently his caresses were met with approval.

''When did you wake?'' he finally dared to ask without interrupting his gentle play. Sherlock shifted on his back, tilted his head, swallowed. John watched with open fascination how the muscles and sinews played under the pale skin of his arched throat. It was capturing, to say the least. The detective blinked.

''When you first touched me,'' he murmured silently, the syllables nearly lost against his sleepy lips. John slowly shook his head, not all that surprised.

''I should have known.''

''Yes.'' A smirk softened the detective's distinct features. ''I didn't want to interrupt you.''

''Never knew you like to be petted.'' The heartbeat the words had left his lips John cursed himself, wincing inwardly when he realized they might be taken the wrong way. It had sounded far too derogatory, too mocking. That was not the way he had meant it.

Sherlock swallowed again.

''It's... pleasant,'' he finally murmured as if he was admitting a crime, and John imagined to see his eyes darken. It was his imagination, had to be, the light was far too faint to be sure, but he still regretted saying it.

''I like it,'' he whispered, deliberately leaving himself wide open for a disparaging comment. Apparently Sherlock caught the hint, and his features seemed to soften again.

''Good.'' For some time they let silence spread again, but that was alright. It was calm and relaxed and peaceful, and John still had his fingers wander through the detective's wonderful hair, stroking and playing and ruffling ever so softly, amazed at how much the man seemed to enjoy the affection when usually he shunned to be touched at all. Even while he was wondering he could feel his lids grow heavy, could feel his mind drift off into sleepiness, and he allowed himself to relax against the cushions and let his motions grow slower. The alcohol was still dizzying his senses, numbing his perception and cloaking him in a blur, fading out everything save for the sensation of Sherlock's curls between his fingers, and John couldn't deny that he liked it. His fingertips and Sherlock's soft, steady breathing, the strange elevation of being allowed to touch him like this, the warm smile tucking on his lips... if this was a dream he didn't want to wake up again.

Time passed.

''Sherlock?'' he finally whispered after what had felt like an eternity, barely awake, his fingers fallen still in the dark, tangled curls. A silent sigh was his answer, followed by the fluttering of Sherlock's lashes when he once more opened his eyes, and John licked his lips.

''Can we... maybe...'' He hesitated, and the detective's brows furrowed at his pause.

''Go on.'' His voice had never sounded softer.

''Can we... do this again some time? If... you want to.'' John swallowed, focused on the way his fingertips parted the sea of ebony curls to avoid Sherlock's stare. At first he didn't answer, and the doctor began to wonder whether he had inevitably shattered their moment. Whether he had once more driven the man away with his wretched need for reassurance. Whether he would look up to find all softness in his glass shard eyes replaced with the usual gleam of scorn. John could feel regret well up inside his chest, and he forced himself to gather his spirits and once more raise his gaze, unwilling to surrender before the battle was lost.

Sherlock was staring at him, capturing his eyes with his mesmerizing gaze, and the faintest of smiles was playing around his lips. He seemed utterly lost in his contemplation, fascinated by whatever it was he saw, before finally he blinked as if he had only just remembered the question and then emitted a silent sigh. It was deep and content and so full of satisfaction it contrasted with everything John had ever thought him to be, and the detective leaned further into his gentle touch, pressing his head against John's palm and closing his eyes.

''I thought you'd never ask.''

 

 


End file.
